


Whirlwinds of Victory

by Filigranka



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Breathplay, M/M, Self-Destructive Tendencies, hate: connecting people, people elves and other beings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-17 12:24:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11851509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka
Summary: ‘This is not like a hanging at all.’ Roche’s voice came from behind him. ‘Proper hanging is quick. Painless.'





	Whirlwinds of Victory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wednesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/gifts).



> Many thanks to A. and B. for beta!

The rope on Iorveth’s neck was smooth like silk and unforgiving like steel, almost cutting through his throat, crushing his windpipe. His hands moved of their own accord, scratching on the rope, his legs jerking weakly in the bonds. There was blackness crouching in the corner of his vision and Iorveth was choking hopelessly, desperately, trying to get some air into his lungs, loosen the rope—do something, anything, just to survive—and then there was sudden calmness and light, and he knew, deep down, they meant the end—

The pressure disappeared. Iorveth choked again, this time on the air, and went into a fit of coughing. Acid bile rose in his scratched throat and he fought to not throw up. He had already made a spectacle of himself.

‘This is not like a hanging at all.’ Roche’s voice came from behind him. ‘Proper hanging is quick. Painless. There are procedures for it. Nothing like this.’

Iorveth snarled. Bloede Dh’oine, pretending he was a seer understanding Iorveth’s own soul better than he himself did.

‘There are also procedures—’ Iorveth needed to gulp to make talking easier; he had blood on his broken his nails, he noticed absentmindedly ‘—for torturing captured non-humans, aren’t there ?’

The rustle of clothing. Roche probably shrugged.

‘Sure. For humans and non-humans both. You know those. But hanging is not a torture, it’s an execution.’ He sat on a bed near Iorveth, offered him a glass of watered wine and observed him drinking, caressing the tattoos and the scars on Iorveth's neck. His features were composed—at least from what Iorveth could see from the corner of his eye—into a mask of blasé curiosity, and Iorveth, laying his suddenly heavy head on the mattress, couldn’t help thinking once again what madness this... this whole affair was. Had been from the very beginning.

*

It started during one of the diplomatic events— every envoy of the Nilfgaardian vassals had to attend a hundred of those every year and that one was important enough to send someone higher-ranking than a normal ambassador. There were some talks, some negotiations, some betrayals. And also: many, many feasts and balls.

Iorveth and Roche had been fighting since the very first day. Roche had supposedly sent Thaler a dozen letters with complaints, swearing to gods and hells he wouldn’t bear it any longer and would return to Temeria immediately. Iorveth told anyone who would listen that elves, himself including, had suffered worse offences in the past and had learnt how to live through them gracefully and stoically long ago.

Finally, he and Roche stormed out of the late feast—after the Emperor’s envoy left, of course, to avoid causing a diplomatic incident—and duelled in the garden. The duel transformed into a fistfight. They destroyed a few exotic flowers and shrubs Iorveth didn’t know names for (although he would rather die than admit it and, upon Roche asking later, invented a few long, pompously sounding names in Elder Speech) and broke the tiles on the garden path. Also, Iorveth almost broke Roche’s hand and Roche almost broke Iorveth’s nose, but ultimately they were both reasonable enough to not risk a scandal and the only things which ended seriously wounded were their egos.

They looked at themselves, covered in dirt, grass and flowers’ petals, and started to howl with laughter. And one of them—till the end of their lives, they both would swear it was the other one—lowered his hands to their trousers, loosening them and pulling them down, and licked the blood from the other one’s lips.

*

In time, it became a routine. Although they didn’t always make a scene in public—that would draw attention to them . Sometimes they were chillingly polite to each other, sometimes they just ignored each other’s presence. Either way, on every official event they both attended, they duelled or just fought and then had sex. And not only sex. Sometimes the situation was more akin to an interrogation or tortures.

It was always for the winner of their previous fight to decide. Iorveth found it a fair, almost honourable solution. Roche found the idea of putting honour in the context of screwing ridiculous and teased Iorveth about it mercilessly. In time, it became a routine, too.

*

‘Again,’ Iorveth commanded weakly. He didn’t know why. Maybe deep down he was still afraid of it—not dying, he told himself, but the shame, the defeat, the lost hope, symbolised by the knot of the rope—but after all these years of just acting, not thinking, suppressing every feeling and hiding every weakness, he wasn’t sure.

The rope coiled around his neck. Tight, but not tight enough. Roche obviously hesitated.

‘Stronger,’ Iorveth hissed.

‘Are you sure? It’s not the safest method, you know. And you could use some rest.’

Now, there was concern. What was worse, it sounded genuine. Gentle. Roche had tortured and killed so many of the Scoia’tael, many of them in much more crueller manner than simply strangling or hanging, and now he—he dared...

Iorveth understood—because Roche wasn’t really a complicated man, his mind focused solely on Temeria and those he drank with—but it still made fury ignite the blood in his veins.

Maybe deep down he was still most afraid of becoming a traitor.

‘Is it your professional opinion? What, Roche, should I pay you something extra for a risky job? My purse is right here, just tell me how much they paid your mother—’

The rope immediately tightened, stealing his breath. This time blackness and panic came much earlier—Iorveth was weakened—and his attempts at freeing himself were even more pathetic than before. But this time Roche didn’t stop and it sent a shiver of satisfaction down Iorveth’s spine, even when he was terrified out of his mind, losing consciousness and falling, falling, dying, finally, he felt—dimly—free. From everything. His cause, his duties, his obsession, his crimes, his pain—Roche sank his teeth into the skin over Iorveth's pulsating artery, biting and sucking—his bitterness, his memories of the happier days, his betrayals, his fallen comrades, his—

*

His freedom didn’t last long. He was coming to his senses slowly, his head heavy and already starting to ache. He kept blinking for a few moments, trying to recognise both the place and the situation—and when he finally figured it out, he started laughing. His head and throat hurt much worse because of that, but he just couldn’t care.

Of course Roche stopped himself in time. Of bloede course . He had a spine of steel and tons of both family and job experience to draw from.

Yet when Iorveth looked up, searching for Roche’s eyes, they were mostly tired and thoughtful. No triumph in them, no lust.

‘Maniac laughter isn’t a symptom of brain damage I've already seen , but the medics—‘

‘I’m fine,’ Iorveth croaked. His voice sounded terrible even to his own ears.

‘Good. The wine is on the stool.’ Roche used his foot to bring it a little closer to the bed. Bloede show-off. Iorveth wanted to curse, but his throat felt too raw. ‘Also, good-bye, Iorveth. We should end this.’ Roche stood abruptly. ‘Or rather: I've decided we end this. Now.’ He went to the door.

Iorveth laughed again. He felt so very strange—exhausted and in pain, but light and joyful at the same time. Side-effect of escaping death, he knew. He had experienced it before.

‘Are you afraid...’ he paused to lick his lips and gulp, meaningless efforts to wet his throat, ‘you won’t stop yourself... next time? Not in time? You’re afraid of political consequences... for Temeria? Or yourself?’

Roche stopped literally at the doorstep. Didn’t turn his head, though.

‘It doesn’t matter why. That’s just my decision. After all,’ he added with sudden bitterness, ‘even whores can choose their clients.’

‘Depends on the pimp. And ours isn’t merciful.’

For a moment Iorveth thought Roche had just left without a word more. But the door opened again.

‘Emhyr doesn’t care.’ It seemed like Roche wanted to say something more, but then he just shook his head. ‘Rest well, Iorveth. You need it.’

Promises, promises. Iorveth couldn't stop laughing. "Emhyr doesn't care"—sure, unlike some others. "I decide to end it"—ha, like he was going to believe it. He had heard such good-byes already, had sometimes said them himself. And yet they always found each other. Fighting. Fucking. Talking. Swearing to gods and fate it was the last time. Again and again. The cycle, as vicious and unstoppable as the changing of the seasons. The worlds must really be a Spiral, Iorveth mused dimly, still a little high from the previous lack of oxygen—and the greatest narcotics of them all, the feeling of being alive. Our old legends are right, as always, and Dh’oine are only little waves in the whirlpool of Aen Seidhe’s ultimate fate and purpose. Our destined victory. Insects and worms... But ah, so pleasurable when used properly.

Some treacherous whisper in his mind mentioned that the “right use” in Iorveth’s edition could be summarised as “the desperate death-seeking”, but he managed to blame it on the blossoming headache, and moved his attention to the matters more important than the impotent prophecies of the elders.

Namely, when and how he would infuriate Roche again and what kind of service he would demand in return. There was the anniversary of The Liberation, Emhyr’s victory over the North, coming next month; Roche would be sufficiently furious from the beginning.

Let the bards sing about the prophecies and fated encounters, let Aen Saevherne interpret the old tomes and argue over the meaning of the seer’s intonation—Scoia'tael commanders believed in proper planning and creating the strategic advantages.


End file.
